The Triangle
by BAW
Summary: Blood Magic in Cascade


**The Triangle**

**By**

**BAW**

**Disclaimer: **This is a work of "fanfiction", set in the world of **The Sentinel**; no copyright is claimed for elements of the story from that television series; copyright is claimed for original elements. By counsel's opinion, fanfiction written for amusement and as a writing exercise, with no desire or expectation for profit, comes within 'fair use.'

**Notes: **This is a part of the _Jacob's Ladder _series. Set after _The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg_, it assumes that Blair has joined the Force, now going by his middle name--professionally, he is known as _B. Jacob Sandburg_. The first story of this series (chronologically) is _The Natural, _in which Simon defends his sponsorship of Blair to the Academy; the last is _The Sandburg Express_, in which Sandburg obtains his doctorate. All other stories come between; as of this date, no post _Express_ stories are planned, although 'never' is a very long time.

The other stories are at www.susans-stories.co.uk; I would appreciate feedback at lawrence81@iwon.com, for that is how I become a better writer.

Thanks to Susan for providing the archive space; thanks to my betareaders--even when I didn't take your suggestions, they were appreciated--especially Ray Stewart.

Archiving: Yes; simply tell me where.

* * *

"Morning, Ellison," said Rafe, "Where's the rest of the set?"

"The set?"

"You and Sandburg. When we see one of you, we expect the other. Where's he?"

"He had to go down to Forensics. They said there were some thing's they needed an Anthropologist to take a look at."

"I was going to congratulate him on getting that confession from that creep Vice hauled in the other night, and ask him how he did it."

"Well, he could tell the guy was an educated man, with a bit of an imagination. Jacob mentioned to the guy that he had been an anthropology major and began talking about some of the tribes he'd worked with. Then, when he got to some tribe in--I think--Indonesia, he started describing what they do to people who did what this guy was accused of. A very full, detailed, _graphic_ description; apparently he'd seen it actually done at least once. The guy broke."

"He always said that Anthropology had applications to police work."

"And the beauty of it is that Sandburg didn't ask him any questions. He just sat there, reciting all the gristly details in a dry, precise, clinical sort of way, like it was something of only academic interest."

"Hey, Jim!" came the voice of the object of their discussion.

"Finished up in Forensics so soon?"

"Yeah, it was pretty simple, really. I'm not precisely a Forensic Anthropologist, but I'm the closest thing we have on staff, so I don't mind helping occasionally. I'm just glad I don't have to do it all the time. Ugh!"

The two detectives sat down and began going over their files, entering their reports into their computers. The stacks of files in their 'in' boxes were considerably lower, and those in the 'out' boxes were considerably taller when the Captain's office door opened and the familiar Banks Bellow sounded,

"Ellison! Sandburg! My office!"

Although characteristically loud, the Captain did not appear angry or upset, so neither detective hurried. The Captain waived them to their seats and offered cups of his special coffee.

"Gentlemen, I have your proposed Continuing Education Plans here. Jim--Florida State University? Are you planning to take a Leave for Educational Purposes?"

"No, sir. If you'll look at the attachment you'll see that they have a Distance Learning option; I can do the work by correspondence, like Sandburg did with his British psych. degree. M.S. in Criminal Justice."

"And you, Sandburg. The Union Institute?"

"I'll have to make some short visits to Cincinnati, but I can do most of it at a distance. And I'll have to make some sort of arrangement to go to half-time here when it comes time to do my practica."

"We'll deal with that when the time comes; perhaps we can share you with the E.A.P. I certainly don't want to stand in the way of your getting your doctorate at last. I'll sign off on both your plans. Now, don't you have any work to do?"

* * *

That evening they came home and began to sort through their mail.

"Postcard from Atlanta," said Jim.

"What's the news?"

"Dad's found a lot of materials about the family's Georgia connections. No mention of anyone who might have been a Sentinel, but to be sure he's making copies--one for us, one fo Adian, one for Alain, one for Magnus & Fiona. He's gonna go up to Baltimore and see if he can contact those Ellisons."

"Adian's over in Scotland now. He's been testing the family for heightened senses and collecting information on how they use them in their work."

"Stevie's been tracking down Mom's family in L.A.," said Jim scanning another letter, "Well, I'll be. . .Mom's younger brother is a retired Captain of the LAPD. He's enclosed a picture."

"Wow! I can see the resemblance."

"Stevie says he's met him, and doesn't _think_ he has any enhanced senses, but the protect-the-tribe instinct seems to be in full working order."

"My turn to cook," said the Guide abruptly, putting aside the letters and moving into the kitchen, "stir-fry chicken O.K. with you?"

"Sure, Chief," said Jim casually; he knew that Jacob had ambivalent feelings about others carrying on his Sentinel research. On the one hand, he knew that getting the information out was important; on the other, while generally happy with his new life, he did somewhat regret that he could not publicly carry on his near-lifelong passion. Jim knew that when the matter came up he would have to exercise all his tact and sensitivity; inwardly he laughed, thinking what some of his colleagues from not that many years ago would say at the thought of putting 'tact' and 'sensitivity' in the same sentence as 'Jim Ellison' was a large oxymoron.

"There's a letter from Alain, too."

"What does he say?"

"I don't know; it's addressed to you."

"Open it. Alain knows I've few secrets from you."

Jim opened the envelope and took out the letter, reading it out as Jacob chopped the vegetables, sliced the chicken, and blended the spices with the sherry.

The letter, after the usual greetings, talked about some new sources the Canadian scholar-priest had found for his Sentinel dissertation--ones which Sandburg had missed for his ill-fated anthropology thesis. ("Not surprising; he's an historian, not an anthropologist. He'd automatically check things I wouldn't normally think of--and vice versa, of course.") There was talk of some of the goings-on at the Institute; Sandburg smiled and nodded, recognizing some of the names.

"'I recently took a trip down to the States for a rather melancholy duty. It took some digging, but I was able to find Lee Brackett's family. I felt that they had a right to some closure. I didn't tell them everything, of course, but enough for them to move on. It had been years since he'd contacted them; they didn't know if he was alive or dead. I gave the sermon at his memorial service. As was fitting, I said only good about him. Though I know you find it difficult to believe, but there was good to say. He was one of the good guys, once; what turned him, I have never been able to find out, but it must have been something dreadful.'"

Jacob slammed the carving knife, point first, into the cutting board.

"_Brackett!_" he snarled, "I know that, as a priest, Alain has to attempt healing and reconciliation. I know that, as a shaman, I should also; generally, I can. But not with him. I know he's gone, and can no longer threaten us. And I know that he's been judged by One who is far fairer to him than I can ever be. But I can't think of him without that dark rage arising. None of our other old adversaries do that. Lash and Alex were just crazy; they couldn't help being what they were. Kincaid honestly believed that what he was doing was right; he was twisted and evil, but he had his own sort of integrity. Ventriss and Edwards--they've gotten theirs. Ventriss is in prison, and Edwards will never work in Higher Education again."

"She won't?"

"There was a morals clause in her contract," said Jacob, with an evil grin, "When she pled guilty to 'assault on a police officer' and 'hindering an official police investigation', she lost her job at Rainier; and what college or university would hire someone who had been fired for violating a morals clause?"

"It couldn't happen to a nicer lady."

"Hear, hear!"

"What else does Alain have to say?"

"Nothing much. Talks a little about the classes he's teaching."

"I'll read that part later. Now, what's that letter with the British stamp?"

"From Magnus and Fiona."

Jim opened the envelope and took out a photograph. It showed Magnus standing with a younger man, in a military uniform. Jim did a double take, then walked over to where the photograph albums were kept. Wordlessly he pulled one of them out, then turned to a certain page--himself in a Ranger Captain's uniform. He brought the album and the photograph over to Jacob.

"You remember him telling us about his son, the Sentinel, a major in the SAS? Look."

"He does look like you. And Magnus looks even more like your Dad than I remember. Is the SAS the British equivalent of the Rangers?"

"More or less."

"A little unsettling?"

"Yes. Here's a picture of Magnus' brother, the Medical Sentinel."

"Stevie might look like that when he's sixty or so."

"Yes, he might. I guess that'd be Ian Ross, his Guide, next to him. There's a letter from India, too--a rather fat one."

Jim opened it. There was a cover letter from the Sikh Sentinel they had met in London, and a manuscript account of the man's ancestress, herself a Sentinel, who, with her Guide, had helped with the eradication of the Thuggee cult. Which operation had been complicated by the presence of a Sentinel-Guide pair within the cult.

"That," said Jacob,"would be worse than anything we've had to deal with. The only evil Sentinel we've had to deal with was one who didn't know what she was, or what she was doing, and didn't have a Guide of her own. And even then it was a near thing. Reading that account will be interesting."

"If another came along, we'd know how to deal with him--or her. We know what we are now. But I don't understand how a fully-developed Sentinel could do something like that. What about protecting the Tribe?"

"Well, he probably thought of the cult as his Tribe. Some of the Japanese legends about the Ninja could be interpreted as referring to Sentinels among them. We'll know for sure after we've read the account, after dinner," said Jacob, "I'll just put on the rice and start heating the wok. If you'll set the table. . . "

Soon the Loft was full of the smell of garlic, onions, and ginger sautéing; the chicken went in next. As soon as the chicken was white, the broccoli, snow peas, and carrots went on. Last came the sherry/soy sauce/spice mixture, and the smells of cinnamon, anise, cloves, allspice, and coriander were added to the mix. Sandburg clapped the lid onto the wok and turned the fire down. 

The two men did some rough cleanup in the kitchen--wiping down the counters, putting the bowls and utensils used in preparation in hot soapy water, and other small things. Jim then poured out two glasses of hard cider--a recently discovered taste, one which went well with Sandburg's chicken stir-fry; Jacob dished out the rice and ladled the hot meat and vegetables over it, with a generous dollop of sauce, and set the plates on the table before himself and his almost drooling Sentinel. Nothing more was said for some time as the two hungry men filled their hollow legs.

* * *

"Major Crime, Det. Sandburg speaking. Oh, hi Carl. Yes? Who? Of course, send him up. Thanks."

"What was that?" asked Jim.

"Oh, nothing."

"Then why is your heart hammering as though you've just run a four-minute mile?"

"OK--not nothing. That was the front desk. Dr. Stoddard is here for me."

"_Eli_ Stoddard?"

"Yes, Jim. This is the first time he's contacted me since. . . .since. . ."

"The Implosion?"

"Yes."

"What does he want?"

"I don't know."

It was at that point that Dr. Stoddard came into the bullpen. Sandburg was shocked; he remembered his mentor as a vigorous man, despite his years. Now the man was shrunken and stooped. He had lost weight--too much. His hands trembled--not badly, but noticeably, and he moved as though he were in pain.

"Dr. Stoddard!" cried Sandburg, "I've missed you. What brings you here? Sit down, please. Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? I think there are some doughnuts left, if. . ."

"Sandburg!" Jim broke in, "Breathe!"

Dr. Stoddard lowered himself into the proffered chair and looked about.

"So, this is where you work now."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you happy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then it was worth it?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"I suppose that you're wondering why I haven't come to see you before, and why I've come now?"

"It had crossed my mind."

"I was angry with you, Blair, so angry. When I heard you denouncing your work, I was so angry I could hardly see. I knew that if I confronted you, I'd probably hit you--and you may not know it, but I was a Golden Gloves champion in my youth."

"What happened to change your mind?"

"Simon Griffith and Alain Reynolds happened. They ganged up on me when we met at a conference. They persuaded me that there had to have been a good reason for your having done what you did. When I realized that, I was so ashamed that I couldn't face you."

"What made you come here now?"

"I need to tie up loose ends before I. . .go. No," he said, raising his hand to forstall objections, "I'm not going to die today or tomorrow, but I've declined so over the past six months. The doctors can't find anything specifically wrong, but I don't think I have much longer. Will you come to my cabin this weekend--both of you?"

The two detectives looked at one another.

**"Of course,"** they chorused.

"Good. Here are the directions. Do you fish? There's a stream running through the property."

"Great!" exclaimed Jim.

"Blair, son. . ."

"Dr. Stoddard, I go by my middle name now--Jacob. It seemed easier, not having people say, 'Blair. . .aren't you the guy who. . . ?' "

"Jacob, then. Can you give me an idea of _why_?"

"We'll speak in more detail over the weekend. But, remember what you told me of the first ethical obligation of a scientist who experiments on humans?"

"'The experimental subject's well-being is of primary concern; before allowing harm to the subject, the ethical scientist will abort the experiment, no matter how far the project has come.' That's from my book."

"_A Primer on Research Ethics for Anthropology & Sociology._ I'm still an Anthropologist, Dr. Stoddard--even if I'm not in Academe any more."

"'An Anthropologist studies how people get along with each other, and what happens when they don't.' I used that line in every section of 101 I ever taught. I can see how a policeman would find anthropology useful."

"He hasn't given up on teaching, sir," said Jim, proudly, "He guest-lectures at the Academy quite often."

"Glad to hear it. Well, gentlemen, I will see you this weekend."

* * *

"Jim, this is so cool! I've never been to Dr. Stoddard's cabin before," said Jacob, giving a Blairesque bounce on Sweetheart's passenger seat.

"It's certainly way out here."

"It was a minor legend on campus. They say he has about 40 acres of woodland. He's bounded on one side by the Cascade National Forest, on the other by the Cascade State Park, and on the third by an Indian Reservation."

"And the fourth?"

"This road. The turn-off should be on the left before too long."

"Here it is."

'Cabin' was a modest term for the building. It was, in reality, a substantial stone house nestled into the side of the hill. It had a deep front porch, and the lighted windows glowed invitingly. As they drew up to the steps, Dr. Stoddard and a middle-aged Native American woman emerged from the house.

"Come in, come in. Welcome. Jim Ellison, Jacob Sandburg, this is Sarah Whiteagle who comes in and 'does for' me when I'm up here. Her husband isn't here, but he acts as caretaker when I can't come around."

"As his father did before," said Sarah, "Come in, and welcome."

They passed through the entryway into a great room, which seemed larger than one would expect from the outside. Two fireplaces, one at each end, equipped with Franklin stoves, contrived to heat the space. The walls were decorated with hunting trophies, and fur rugs dotted the polished hardwood floors.

"My late wife," said Dr. Stoddard, "was a foundress and active member of the Diana Club."

Jim looked blank.

"The Diana Club is an organization of women bow hunters," explained Jacob.

"Right," continued the old man, "she and some of the girls she grew up with hunted with their fathers, and felt that hunting was too dominated by men. They formed a club to support and encourage women hunters. This land was her family's; her father deeded most of it to the State for the park, but he kept these 40 acres and this house."

Sarah showed the two guests to their rooms. The house seemed to go farther back than it appeared from the outside.

"The house is dug back into the hill," she explained, "Warm in winter, cool in summer. The cellar has a tunnel which connects up to a cave coming out on the Reservation; very convenient for the winter, if a bit gloomy for the rest of the year. Dinner will be in about half an hour. I hope you like venison."

After a dinner of Caesar salad, roast venison with turnips and broccoli, and a blueberry cobbler, accompanied with home made wild cherry wine, they sat before the fireplace talking. The two younger men discussed their work, the professor asking some very astute questions concerning the law enforcement applications of anthropological theory. When yawns began to punctuate the conversation, Dr. Stoddard suggested that they go to bed, admonishing them that they were not to get up until they'd slept themselves out.

* * *

Despite that admonition, Jim was unable to sleep in; long habit had him up at dawn--even though, in their hobbit-like accommodation there was little indication (to normal senses, at least) of such.

Moving as quietly as his Ranger training enabled, he slipped into the kitchen. The coffee maker was the same type as they had at the loft, and he had seen the previous night where the coffee was kept.

Before too long, their host came out; getting himself a cup, he joined the Sentinel on the porch.

"The stream is over there," he said, pointing, "but you can probably hear it--smell it, too, I shouldn't wonder."

"Wh--?"

"I guessed. When my colleagues cornered me at the conference and bullied me into admitting that young Mr. Sandburg must have had a good reason for doing what he did; when he reminded me of the ethics of human experimentation, I had an inkling, and last night proved it."

"Last night?"

"You were very clever in editing your stories, but an experienced anthropologist knows how to tell what an informant is _not_ saying as well as what he _is_ saying."

"_Informant?_"

"I'm sorry; I guess that word has connotations to a policeman which it does not to an anthropologist. For us it simply means a member of the social group we are studying who consents to answer questions."

"I guess that's not _too_ different from what we mean."

"Except that the group you're studying is generally a criminal subculture of some sort?"

"Well, there's that."

"No offence meant."

"None taken."

The approaching sound of an ATV heralded Mrs. Whiteagle's arrival. She was riding pillion behind a young man who, by his appearance, was a close relative. Too old for a son, Jim deduced--unless she had been a teen mother; a nephew or perhaps a _much_ younger brother, then. He was wearing a uniform of some sort. They pulled up to the porch and got off.

"Well, Sarah, it isn't every day you have a police escort!" said Eli.

"Today's special," she replied, "Jim, I'd like you to meet my nephew, Sgt. Josiah Tallhorse of the Tribal Police. Josiah, this is one detectives from Cascade I was telling you about, Jim Ellison."

"And I'm Jacob Sandburg, the other one," said a voice from just inside the door. The owner of the voice soon emerged, blinking sleepily.

"Pleased to meet you," said Tallhorse.

At Eli's suggestion, the young man accepted a cup of coffee, while Sarah went in and started breakfast. Eli told Jacob where the card table was kept. He unfolded it while Jim brought out a cloth, plates, and utensils. Sarah soon came out with eggs, biscuits, butter, jam, and sausages.

"Are these venison?" asked Jacob.

"Elk," she replied, "and the jam is from local wild cherries--the same kind that went into the wine last night."

Nothing more was said for some time. When the food had vanished and the table cleared, Josiah cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid this isn't entirely a social call, Detectives. I'm here to ask for some help. There's been a murder. Now, we don't get much crime on the Reservation---oh, fights, domestics, traffic, DWI, vandalism, an occasional B&E. But, because we're such a small community, generally it isn't too hard to lay our hands on the culprit. This case is different. It's Old Jake."

"Old Jake," explained Sarah, "was a sort of hermit. He was White, but he'd married a tribeswoman; they never had any children, but after she died, we let him stay on in their cabin. As the years went on he became more and more reclusive. Eccentric, you'd call him--but no real harm in him."

"I'd check on him every few days," said Josiah, "last night I stopped by and the place was dark, no smoke from the chimney. I knocked. When there was no answer, I tried the door. It was unlocked, and I shone my flashlight in. He was dead. Obviously murdered.

"I don't like the Fan Belt Inspectors, but they have jurisdiction over the murder of a White man in Indian Country; as the widower of an Indian, he was accounted as a member of the Tribe, so we can make a case for at least delaying calling them in. If we can have the murderer all wrapped up like a Christmas present, so much the better. I know you're on vacation, but none of us have had much practical detective experience--could you help us? We might even be able to squeeze out a stipend from the training budget."

"Can we talk about it before we say 'yes' or 'no'?" asked Jim.

"Of course."

The two Cascade detectives went back into the cabin.

"Well, Chief, do you want to do this?"

"Unless you have an objection, Jim, I'd say 'yes.' You know how ham-handed the FBI tends to be; we can investigate this discretely and respectfully, without trampling on the Tribe's cultural mores. Besides, if we don't get in on it, we'll be wondering about it forever."

"You're right. I'll call Simon and ask him to get us seconded to the Tribal Police."

"If the stipend comes in, I'm donating it to a Native American scholarship fund."

"Good idea."

* * *

The cabin was a rough log structure, more like what was generally denoted by the word than Prof. Stoddard's place. It had been sealed, and the clearing roped off. Two other Tribal police officers were standing guard.

"Det. Ellison?" asked Josiah, "What should we do?"

"Do you have latex gloves and small plastic bags--like sandwich bags--for the officers? Good. Have them quarter the clearing and pick up anything unusual, anything which does not belong. Each such item should be put in a separate bag, and a location and description should be noted in the officer's notebook. You, Sandburg, and I will check out the house."

There was not much furniture in the cabin; most of it had been knocked over or broken in what must have been a fierce struggle. The old man had been not only killed, but had been badly cut about. Sandburg bent over to examine the wounds, and then stood up as though someone had stuck a pin in him.

"Is there an active Shaman on the Reservation?" he asked sharply.

"Most of us are Christians, now, but a few follow the old ways. Why?"

"We need him or her here ASAP. These cuts were in a ritualized pattern. And look at the walls and floor--those are ritual designs."

"The Shaman is my great-uncle," said Josaih, "I'm not an Initiate, so I don't know the meanings of the designs, but I recognize most of them. I don't recognize all of these."

"That's because they aren't all from _your_ tradition. Some are from ours."

"I didn't know the White man _had_ that sort of thing."

"Oh, yes, we do. Please get the Shaman here, as quickly as you can. Someone is trying to mix our ways with yours, and _not _for a good purpose. Most of the symbols I recognize are drawn upside down or in mirror-image. I don't know what that means in your tradition, but with us it means that the power of the symbols is being perverted to an evil purpose. Now, summon the Shaman!"

While they waited, Jim and Jacob gathered as much physical evidence in the cabin as they could, as well as snapping pictures; they were about finished when an old jeep came up the drive, a teenager at the wheel. Riding shotgun was a man who might have been anywhere from sixty to a hundred years old. He was dressed in a modern fashion, but he held a carven staff in his hand from which various feathers, beads, and amulets hung. He got out of the jeep and strode over to Jacob with a vigor belying his years. Before anyone could say anything, he bowed almost double.

"Hail, White Shaman!" he said, "the Spirits said that one such as you would come. I said, 'Nay, the whites have not shamans.' The Spirits said, 'They do indeed, and you shall meet one before you join us. By this you shall know him--Wolf who walks with Black Cougar. He shall be young, but his power shall be to yours as a bonfire is to a candle.' Now, show me this evil of which I have heard!"

The two Shamans entered the cabin, Jim and Josiah on their heels.

"Oh, this is bad, very bad," said the old man.

"Eldest," said Jacob, "the symbols from my people are symbols of good medicine, but drawn here backwards, upside down, or mirror-wise. We have a saying that when the good is corrupted, it is often worse than that which was bad from the beginning."

"And we have a similar saying, my son. And my symbols, too, are here perverted. You others, _out_--we must purify this place."

Josiah laid a hand on Jim's arm.

"It is ill done to disturb one Shaman at his work, much less two," he whispered.

The door shut behind the Shamans, leaving the others outside. Jim and Josiah supervised the gathering of evidence in the clearing. A voice rose from inside the cabin, weaving strange ululations. There cam the sound of a drum, and another voice, in a sort of droning chant, joined it. After a while the voices were silent, although the drum continued. The drum broke off, and the first voice was heard again, this time in English. There was no anger or malice in the tone, which made the words all the more shocking.

"Hear me foul sorceress! I am Iakob ben Naomi, _kohen_ of the line of Zadok, Shaman of the Great City of Cascade. I denounce thee and thy foul master. I throw my despite into thy teeth. Know this: while I live thy foul enchantments shall have no force. May every hand or foot of man or woman be raised against thee; may every tooth or claw of bird or beast be bared against thee; accursed be thou at bed and at board, in street and in market, in hill or valley, on land or sea, by sunlight, by moonlight, or by starlight. Let thy food be poison, let thy drink be venom. Even as the dogs ate Jezebel in the portion of Jezereel, so may thy flesh be given as prey to the vultures of the air and the beasts of the field, and may thy soul wander forever in the Outermost Darkness. _Selah. Amen. _**_So mote it be!_**"

Then the second voice arose, speaking in a different language. If Jim had been looking slightly gray at the words of the first voice--and who could blame him?--the words of the second voice made the Tribal officers look as though they wanted to flee. As soon as the second voice stopped speaking, the door opened and the two Shamans staggered out. The old man looked like death warmed over, and Sandburg looked not much better. The teenager who had brought the old man rushed forward and half-carried, half-dragged him to the jeep. Jim followed suit with his partner.

The young man took some dried herbs and forced a portion under the old man's tongue; he handed Jim some and fiercely gestured him to do likewise. Reluctantly, but not knowing what else to do, he complied. Both Shamans began to cough and gasp.

"What was that about?" asked Jim, as soon as they were recovered, "I've _never_ heard you use that kind of language before."

"I've never encountered that kind of evil before. She took symbols that were meant to help, heal and protect and twisted them to harm, and she bound the death-energies of that harmless old man to do it. She--whoever she is--is worse than anyone we've encountered. Worse than Lash or Alex, because she knew exactly what she was doing; and there was such _malice_ there, malice which made Brad Ventriss look like a schoolyard bully. Next to her, none of our previous adversaries are really evil--unhappy, yes; misguided, yes; exposed to difficult and complicated temptations which they were too weak to resist, yes; but I'd never known real evil before her."

"You say _her_. How do you know? Something mystical?"

"No, one very physical clue," he replied, drawing an evidence bag out of his pocket, "Found next to the body."

In the bag was a long, elegant press-on nail, enameled in red and stained with blood.

"But that curse--you painted a big target on yourself. '_While I live. . .'_"

"Bait, Jim. Bait. She's going to come after us, but Grandfather Raven and I have put arcane protections on one another that she won't be able to break, and if she tries anything physical---she'd have to get through most of the Tribe to get to Grandfather Raven, and as for me. . .I have my Blessed Protector, and I'm not precisely helpless myself."

Grandfather Raven was driven home, still only semiconscious. The two Cascade detectives supervised the collection of forensic evidence from the cabin and the curtilage, which they packed up and gave to one of the officers, who agreed to take to Cascade in place it in Cassie Wells' hands. When they were finished, they were somehow unsurprised to see Dr. Stoddard standing at the edge of the clearing.

"How long were you there, Dr. Stoddard?" asked Jacob.

"I came about the same time as Old Raven. An anthropologist learns how to observe without being observed. There is a place for the participant-observer, but there is also one for the concealed observer, too. It was fascinating to watch how you quartered the clearing for bits of evidence; not too different from how archaeologists work a dig. Come, you must be starving."

When they came back to the Stoddard cabin, Eli collapsed on the couch, averring that the day had taken too much out of him, and would the two younger men mind getting dinner, although it was frightfully rude to make the guests do all the work?

Jim and Jacob were naturally more than willing to pitch in. Eli had set three moose steaks to marinate earlier that day, and Jim was more than happy to fire up the grill. Jacob found a box of cous-cous, a head of cabbage, the makings for dressing, and some frozen peas and carrots.

"Cous-cous as the carb, cole slaw for the salad, and peas and carrots for the veggie--sound good?"

"Excellent. You'll find some brandied peaches and a gallon of ice cream--those'll do for dessert," replied the professor.

"I don't think I've eaten so much game in a long time," said Jacob, "surely this hasn't been in the freezer since before Mrs. Stoddard died?"

"Oh, goodness no! But she grew up hunting in these woods; most of the Indians knew her family, and they keep the freezer full. I'm always getting someone dropping by with a few cuts from a deer, elk, or moose they've taken, or some sausages they've made, or a brace of rabbit or squirrel. Same with fruits and the like--someone's always stopping by with a couple jars of preserves or a bottle or so of homemade wine, or something like that. A little embarassing, of course--makes me feel like the Lord of the Manor or something, but there's no gracious way to refuse."

Jacob found the gin, vermouth, and olives and mixed Eli a double martini.

"There now. Just sip this and we'll have dinner ready about when you're finished."

Eli went to bed right after dinner. The two younger men found a basketball game on the television and sat up watching for a while.

* * *

The next day, Jim and Jacob went onto the Reservation to assist the Tribal Police in questioning anyone who might have been near the victim's cabin, or interacted with him during the days before his death. Mostly they briefed the Tribal officers on what to ask about, then observed the interviews; Jacob advised this because most of the witnesses were Native Americans, and he felt that two White officers would not be able to get much out of them.

"Not only will most of them be predisposed not to trust us, but with the best will in the world we may ask our questions in ways which they perceive as impolite--and they'd clam up, even if they were totally innocent," he explained, "I'm a trained anthropologist, but I've never studied this tribe in much depth."

Nobody had much to tell; the victim had been a bit of a recluse, and nobody had seen him to speak to in some time. A few people had been in the vicinity of the cabin, but nobody had noticed anything untoward. It was noontime when they received a call from Simon; there had just been a murder in Cascade which had followed exactly the same pattern as the one on the Reservation. The Feds would _have_ to be called in now, and Simon really needed his best team on the job. Tallhorse insisted on coming.

"I know I have no jurisdiction off the Reservation," he said, "but there should be a Tribal presence on the team, if only as an observer."

"Simon'll pull some strings to have you seconded to the CPD," said Jim, "He's pulled bigger rabbits out of the hat."

They stopped by the cabin to say good-bye to Eli, and apologize for cutting their visit short.

"Quite all right, boys," said the scholar, "I certainly understand. Jacob--or Blair, or whatever you call yourself now--I've come to a decision. When we get back to Cascade, I'm calling my lawyer and altering my will. The cabin and the land to go with it will be yours after I'm gone. None of my children are much into the hunting, fishing, weekend-in-the-forest thing; they'd just sell it or let it fall to rack and ruin. I want it to go to someone who'll appreciate it."

"Eli. . .I don't know what to say. Of course, it will be a long time before. . ."

"No, it won't. I don't know exactly how long, but I haven't that much time. We'll speak of this later. Now, go chase that murderess!"

* * *

"Oh, man!" exclaimed the Shaman of the Great City, looking over the scene of the second murder, "This is even worse. Nobody will want to live in this house again. Even if nobody tells them, if they're even marginally sensitive, they'll get nightmares."

"Is it the same person?" asked the Sentinel.

"Yes. Same M.O., and I can _feel_ her. Except---"and here the young Shaman looked crafty--"It worked. She tried to harness the death-energies, but she couldn't. She's running on her personal energies and whatever she harvested from previous victims. The victim's life-force is trapped and shielded."

"Can you get at it?"

"Jim, I'm a Shaman of the Light. I don't--_won't_--touch death-energy or pain-energy, except to disperse it., and I don't think I can do that on my own. I've just called the Cascade Native American Cultural Center; Dame Heron will help me. And here she is!"

A taxi pulled up and a Native American woman got out. She wore a gray silk shirtwaist dress, high heels, and pearls; anyone would have taken her for a lawyer or a businesswoman except for a slightly unfocused look in here eyes--as though she could see things other people couldn't, and some of them might actually be _there_. She seemed as old as Grandfather Raven, but where he was bent and twisted like a bonsai tree, she gave the impression that swallowing a poker would ruin her posture.

Halfway up the walk, she stopped and reached into her purse. She pulled out a stubby, black rod with a silver knob at one end, sculpted like a heron's head. She gave it a little flick and it extended rather like a telescope into a wand about eighteen inches long. Holding the wand in front of her, she advanced up to the porch of the house, muttering too low for even a Sentinel to clearly make out her words.

"Dame Heron," said Jacob, "thank you for coming. This is my partner, Detective Ellison."

"Brother Wolf. Ah, the _famous_ James Ellison. I remember your grandfather. He tried to cheat my father out of his mineral rights. Father may have played the Noble Savage sometimes, but he was one of the first of our people to earn a business degree from the University of Washington. Old Steven Joseph Ellison never knew what hit him."

"Er. . .um. . ah. ." said Jim.

"Be that as it may, we have work to do. Come, my lupine friend," she said, sweeping into the house.

A moment later the forensics team came out, a great deal faster than they had entered.

"Detective Sandburg," said one of them, "she wouldn't _really_ do that to me, would she?"

"What? Oh, no--that's just a favorite expression of hers. As a matter of fact, I think it would be anatomically impossible," said Jacob, hurrying into the house and firmly shutting the door.

Whatever the two Shamans did this time was far less elaborate than the first ritual. There was no drumming and no chanting. About ten minutes later, they emerged, looking only slightly drained. Jim asked one of the uniforms to take the lady home, and bundled his partner back into Sweetheart for a trip back to the station.

* * *

"ELLISON! SANDBURG!"

"You bellowed, sir?"

"I did. Shut the door. Now, Sandburg--what do you mean performing a Shamanic ritual on the crime scene?"

"Captain, may I point out that 1) forensics were, essentially, done and that 2) the Native American lobby is strong enough here that, given how their religious symbols were perverted, problems might have arisen had we _not_ called in a Shaman."

"But why did _you_ have to participate in it?"

"Can we put it down that an officer had to be present to be sure that any disturbance of the site would be minimal, and that one with an advanced degree in Anthropology could be trusted to do so in a culturally sensitive manner?"

"I suppose we could. I take it that the real reason is one of the things _we don't talk about?"_

"You could say that, sir."

"Well, try to warn a guy next time! Sit, both of you. Now, because the first murder happened on Indian land, this is partly a Federal matter. BIACIS is overextended, so they've passed it over to the FBI. I don't know either of the agents, but they'll be coming in this afternoon. What do you have?"

"Well, sir," said Jim, "Sandburg thinks it may be part of some sort of cult."

"I'd figured that out for myself, Jim. What kind of cult?"

"Well, sir," put in Jacob, "all the symbols are drawn from Western and Native American mystical traditions. All of them are from traditions considered good or positive, but the symbols are all--wrong. Some are upside down, some are in mirror image, some are backwards, and the juxtapositions are alien to the traditions. Both the other Shamans say that there are similar distortions in _their_ symbolisms.

"First, I think that whoever this group's leader is, she isn't working from an established tradition of Black Magic. She's getting this out of books and is making it up as she goes along. She has followers. The first ritual was a solo undertaking, but this would have required several acolytes. The followers are probably assorted misfits; she's given them a sense of belonging. Somehow she's turned off their moral faculties, perhaps by drugs. If she has persuaded them to dose themselves with euphorics or hallucinogens before the ritual, they might not know how much was real and how much was imagined."

"OK, but why here, why now?"

"'Now' may have something to do with the winds and the tides. 'Here', I'm not sure of. There's something nagging at the back of my mind."

* * *

"Well, that wasn't so bad," said Jim that evening.

"No, they're making a better breed of Fed now. They didn't try to waltz in and take over."

"Well, they're probably stretched thin these days; they can't afford to alienate locals."

"Jim, there's something I need to tell you that I didn't want to get into in front of Simon, let alone the Feds."

"What is it, Chief?"

"I think this woman is a Bent Guide. Her spirit-animal is an Hyena."

"Just as well that Alex is out of reach."

"Right. An unGuided Bent Sentinel is bad enough, but a Guided one--I don't like to think of the implicatons. Remember how Alex seemed to instinctively know that she needed me? And how I instinctively wanted to help her? And how, even though the criminal part of her wanted to eliminate witnesses, she couldn't actually bring herself to shoot me--just leave me to die?"

"I don't think I like where this is leading."

"What are you thinking?"

"You think that, as a Sentinel needs a Guide, so a Guide needs a Sentinel. She wants to take me away from you. _That will never happen."_

"No, it won't. But she'll try. I think that's why she's trying to build up strength--she's going to try to break our bond, perhaps by killing me, then bond with you."

"Let her try! I'll _eviscerate_ the bitch!"

"No, you won't!" replied Jacob, using The Voice, "This is a Guide thing--if there's evisceration to be done, _I _will do it. But I don't think it will come to that; we Shamans have other ways of dealing with threats."

That night was a flashback to the pre-_Implosion_ days when the Guide would be up all hours doing his academic work; every time the Sentinel awoke he heard the sounds of papers rustling, a pen or pencil scratching, or the soft clicking of the laptop's keys. The next morning, Sandburg looked both tired and wired, but he bounced almost Blairesquely down to Sweetheart when it was time to go in to work.

Once at work, he appropriated the conference room. Members of MC who bravely poked their heads in saw a map of the Greater Cascade area, one which included a part of the Reservation, with a line drawn between the locations of the two murders. Around the map were bits of papers with charts of the phases of the moon, the tides, the rising and setting of various stars and planets, and astrological charts. The margins of these papers were covered with various formulae, and the blackboard was covered with mathematical calculations.

"Do you have any idea what that's about?" asked Rafe.

"No, man--I never got beyond algebra in school, and wasn't too good at that," replied his partner, "I _think_ that was calculus on the board. Megan, do you know calculus?"

"A bit--enough to recognize it. I don't understand what Sandy's doing, though."

Some hours later a rather bedraggled Sandburg burst from the conference room.

"EUREKA!" he shouted, as he rushed into the bullpen, where he did an odd little dance of triumph. He kissed both Megan and Rhonda, mussed Rafe's hair, and generally made an exhibition of himself until the Banks Bellow pulled him up short.

"SANDBURG!!!! What is the meaning of this!"

"Simon! Captain Banks! Sir! I've got it! I've got it!"

"What?"

"Know where the next murder will be--and when. Look!"

Grabbing Simon by the arm, he pulled him into the conference room. The other members of the Unit followed.

"Look! Look!"

The line on the map was supplemented by two others, forming a triangle. The calculations had filled the board and invaded the map.

"It was hard to figure out, given the compound nature of the ritual system, but best I can figure, it will be tomorrow night, _there._ There's an abandoned factory there, quite isolated, just right for the sort of thing which might attract unwelcome attention."

"Sandburg, are you expecting me to mobilize a strike force on the strength of those chicken-tracks?"

Sandburg drew himself up to his full 5'8", a Jack Russell Terrier facing down a Doberman.

"Captain Banks, sir, with all due respect, I have worked very hard on this, and do not appreciate that characterization."

"My apologies--but I still don't understand them."

Sandburg proceded to explain.

Ten minutes later, Captain Banks still did not understand, but was sure that the young detective knew what he was talking about. Muttering something about '_gray hairs'_ and '_early retirement'_ and '_too much information'_, he returned to his office to lay the groundwork for the raid.

* * *

On the appointed night, the members of Major Crime, supported by detectives and uniformed officers drawn from other units, not to mention representation from the Cascade County Sheriff, the Washington State Police, the FBI and the Tribal Police, drew up at the most likely venue in the district identified in Detective Sandburg's calculations.

Said Detective Sandburg had spent the previous day at Cascade's Native American Cultural Center. Grandfather Raven had come from the Reservation for the first time in thirty years, and he and Dame Heron had closeted the young man for several hours in an inner chamber. When he joined his police colleagues, all could feel energy flowing through him; he nearly glowed.

"Neither of them could come here," he explained to his Sentinel and to his Captain, "so they endowed me with some of their Shamanic strength. Deputized me, as it were." He twirled his cane as though it were a cheerleader's baton.

"I have the plans from the architectural firm who designed the place," said Rafe, spreading the document on the hood of a car, "but they can't say what interior partitions have been set up. It shows a large area in the center. From what I understand from Jacob, the main event should take place _here._"

"We have people stationed _here, here _and _here,"_ said Taggart, "to intercept people coming for the ritual. However, the factory connects to some tunnels, designed originally to bring raw materials from and take finished goods to the harbor. It also connects with the storm sewers. Accordingly, there is no way we can really stop the. . .er. . .celebrants from attending."

"According to my calculations," said Jacob, "the ritual should start at about nine and climax at about midnight."

They waited. At about eight-thirty, Jim whispered, "I hear them gathering. About twenty people; they're not talking much."

At about nine, lights were seen inside the building; red light, as though from torches.

"All right!" said Simon, "Fan out; enter the building by various ways, and make your way into the center. Be careful--there may be booby traps. Try not to let them catch any boobies."

Slowly and stealthily the police broke up into small groups which encircled the building, then vanished into it through diverse apertures.

Jim stifled a sneeze.

"The incense!" he whispered.

"Dial it back!"

"Full of drugs; hallucinogens and euphorics, like you said."

"Pullback for protective equipment?"

"No; the concentration isn't high enough to bother an ordinary person. Just me."

"Well_, really _dial back."

Soon they came to the center of the factory, now transformed into a sybaritic scene. Imagine, if you will, every Bacchanalian revel, every Black Mass, every unclean rite you may have heard or read of, all jumbled together; add to that symbols from every religion and mystical tradition of the Light--European, Asian, Native American--all used in ways for which 'blasphemous perversion' would be a mild description.

The victims--a young man barely in his teens and a woman in her twenties--were bound to the makeshift altar. They were not struggling much--drugged, probably--and aside from the binding did not seem to be much harmed, physically.

Standing near the victims was a woman. She was tall, and would have been beautiful if it weren't for the expression on her face. In her hand she held a cup, into which she dropped two small objects.

"Hear me!" she called out, "We have two victims, pure and untouched. One will, this night, go to Our Father Below, that he may grant us power in this world over those who would oppose His reign. The other will go as a reward to the Faithful. Which one has yet to be determined; now, I cast the lots to choose."

She began to shake the cup. The lots rattled. 

Simon's voice boomed out, "Cascade PD! Federal Agents! On the ground, now!"

"NO!" cried the High Priestess, and raised her fist.

Lightening struck the skylight, shattering it into a myriad of crystalline shards; she snatched up a sword which had been by the altar, and raised it up. Another bolt descended, this time on the blade. It should have fried her, but instead it split into smaller bolts, each of which seemed to seek out the weapons of the surrounding officers, each of whom cried out and dropped his or her weapon. Most hung back, but the Cascade Major Crime Squad strode forward.

The High Priestess looked at those approaching with her Other eye. To one side two bears--a Black Bear and a Grizzly--shambled forward on their hind legs. To the other, a Wild Boar scraped his feet and tossed his tusks, while next to him a Scarlet Macaw flapped his strong wings and clicked his sharp beak. In the center a great Black Panther padded forward, a low growl rumbling in his throat, flanked by a Wolf and a Vixen, whose hackles were up and whose upper lips were drawn back, revealing long, sharp fangs.

Jacob blinked; for a moment he saw the Bitch Hyena snarling at him. He felt his Shamanic powers welling up inside him; it was like facing Brackett in the cavern under the Rockies, but much more intense. 

The High Priestess lifted her sword and started to bring it down on one of the victims. The blow stopped, and she saw a stout walking stick interposed over the first one's throat.

"Who are you."

"Iakob ben Naomi, Zadokite _kohen_, Shaman of this city, and thy doom. Begone, thou and thy foul Master."

For a moment they were frozen: Shaman and Witch, Staff to Anthame. Jacob gave his walking stick a twist, jerking the sword from the witch's hand. He then reversed it, driving it into her belly, bending her almost double. He caught her neck in the crook, forcing the shaft under her shoulder, leavering her to the ground. She flung out her left hand in a strange gesture and cried out something in a language that sounded like rusty iron chains falling down a well.

Suddenly, from a point between Sandburg and the rest of the Major Crime Unit came an unhealthy red glow. From it arose a figure. It looked like a woman, but with four arms, bat-like wings, fangs, snakes for hair, and a lolling red tongue; she wore a skirt of severed human arms. The demon advanced on the Shaman, who made warding-off gestures, and snatched the staff out of his hand with one of her arms, snapping it in two. She grabbed him with two of her other arms, lifted him up, and bit off his head.

Screaming in rage and grief, Jim picked up a bit of iron pipe from the ground and rushed at the thing, but he felt as though something was grabbing at his leg. . .then everything began to go dim. . . .

* * *

"Jim. . .Jim. . .Wake up."

That sounded like Sandburg's voice. But Sandburg was dead--the demoness ate him.

"Jim. . Jim. . .Open your eyes."

He might as well; there couldn't be anything worse.

He saw the cieling of the back right guestroom in Prof. Stoddard's cabin. Jacob and Eli leaned over him.

"Sandburg. . . Jacob. . .you're alive!"

"Of course I am. . .oomph. . .Jim, can't breathe."

"You were dead. The Witch called up a demoness, and it. . .it. . .bit off your head!"

"Jim, you had a nightmare. We arrested her and she's in jail. Afterwards, Eli invited us up to spend more time here."

"He did?"

"Of course. Don't you remember? We skipped lunch and you were so hungry you had three helpings of moose lasagne; that'd give anyone nightmares!"

"But it was so vivid, so real. . . ."

"What did the demoness look like?"

"A woman, but with bat wings, snakes for hair, and four arms. She had a skirt made of severed human arms."

"That sounds a bit like Kali Durga, the Hindu Death Goddess. You've been reading the account of the Sentinel who helped eradicate the Thuggee, haven't you?

"Yes. I guess the stress combined with the reading combined with that dinner. . .I'm sorry for waking you up like that, Eli."

"Don't mention it. You boys need a _real_ vacation, though; you need to get right away from Cascade for a bit," said the old professor, "Let me see if my cousin can take you for a while. She runs a bed-and-breakfast out of an old lighthouse on the Maine coast, just outside a peaceful little village--nothing ever happens there."

"What's it called?"

"Cabot Cove."

**=the end=**

Well, should I follow up on the crossover setup? lawrence81@iwon.com


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